A 3rd Time to Die

by George A Bernstein

  “Damn!” he heard Ashley mutter to herself.

  “Got a problem?” He stood, adjusting his robe.

  “I left the duffel with my clean clothes in the car. Do you have a dressing gown I can use?”

  “How about a big shirt?” He only had one robe. Many of his things were still at the house. He had moved out in a hurry, eager to be away.

  “That’d be great. Then you can shower while I’m getting by stuff to dress.”

  Rummaging in the antique oak dresser he’d purchased, he found an old flannel long-sleeved shirt. His heart tap-danced, visualizing her in it. Knocking softly, he opened the door wide enough to pass the shirt through. Her fingers caressed his arm from elbow to wrist. A gentle kiss brushed the back of his hand as it was relieved of the shirt. Goosebumps ran in an avalanche down his back, his heart soaring on hawk’s wings.

  God! I love her!

  Two minutes passed before the door opened, emitting an angel on invisible wings. Damp auburn hair hung in gentle waves to her shoulders, framing her face, free of cosmetics, and all the more lovely for it. She had rolled up the sleeves of the beige shirt, which dangled half way to her knees. It was the first time, he realized, he’d ever seen her bare legs. The strong yet feminine calf, the luscious, curving thigh. No ancient sculptor ever chiseled marble from a lovelier model.

  A mischievous smile, smoky eyes twinkling, opened the door to the banked embers of his love, flooding him with warmth. She executed a slow pirouette, the hem of the shirt ballooning to reveal most of her legs. His heart skipped to his throat, choking off for the moment any ability to comment.

  “Okay for a thirty-three year old mother of three?”

  “Don’t exaggerate.” His voice a hoarse whisper. “You’re still only thirty-two.”

  She giggled, stepping forward, taking his hands. “Close enough. Let’s not split hairs.”

  “It’s not splitting hairs when I tell you how you fill my heart. There’s no words for it.”

  Her smile was a Key West sunrise.

  “I know.” She sighed contentedly. “I never imagined I could be so happy. We’re both free, Craig. Free to be together, where we belong.”

  “So many wasted years finding each other.” He folded her into his arms, burying his face in the soft dampness of her hair. Pulling back slightly, she looked up into his gentle brown eyes.

  “Yes. So many wasted years. But no more.” A slender finger traced his cheek, then his lips.

  “Not one day longer.”

  He bent her face to his, their lips fusing, molten flesh on flesh, lightning bolts igniting wild fires in them. Their bodies fused together, the wonder of her soft curves pulsing against the hard contours of his. Venturesome hands left trails of fire, kindling volcanic passions, new, yet somehow very familiar.

  In a moment, they found the bed, his robe slipping to the floor, her shirt cast aside. His ravenous mouth consumed her, voyaging slowly across her face, her ears, her neck. It lingered at the swell of each breast, nipping and suckling, before descending the ridged hills of her ribs, pausing to lap at the pool of her belly.

  His moist tongue wended it way through a small curly red forest, descending finally into the throbbing, slippery valley. He tasted of the freely flowing spring, nestled there, before climbing slowly to the small, quivering nodule.

  She gasped, arching herself to him, as his lips and tongue enfolded the tiny mound, gently sucking and tweaking. Hands, tangled in his curly hair, guided and encouraged the moist adventurer as it continued its exploration. She shuddered as wave after crashing wave inundated her senses, turning her whole body into an exploding mass of nerve endings. Drawing his questing mouth more tightly to her, she moaned softly.

  “Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu.”

  His tongue was everywhere, darting, caressing, licking, consuming the flowing wellspring of her juices. Her body, taut and quivering, pulsed desperately against his ravenous lips, her whispers choked by ardor.

  “Oh! Oui! Oui! Mon Amour! C’est magnifique!”

  His lips venturing leisurely along a downy, passion-dampened body, to her mouth. His kisses engulfed her, drowning her hold on reality. Magically, they lay in a lush meadow, shaded by giant oaks, reveling in the first consummation of their love. Her ears rang with thunder as he entered her, body tensed against the rapid onrush of quivering ecstasy, and then there was something… a movement in the shadows.

  Somebody… or something… there! She blinked, struggling to make it out.

  It’s coming! C’est vene!

  She writhed, striving to see, a flood of terror thrusting at the relentless tide of ecstasy, turning her helpless.

  There! Mon Dieu! A fierce mask, filled with hate, materialized from the gloom. Two horrible creatures burst out of the dark, rushing at them.

  “Non! Non!” Lost in his passions, he didn’t see them, and she couldn’t make them out, but they were almost upon her, some fearful weapon whirling in the sky above their heads.

  The weight of her lover and her forlorn panic froze her ability to resist. Clutching Craig tightly, she wept, knowing it was the end.

  “Non! Mon Dieu, non! Not again...”

  Her body racked and shuddered as she entangled herself with him, trying to hide from the blows, about to annihilate them.

  “Not again!” she whimpered.

  Everything went black.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT

  “You’re drifting back now. Back, back, back to another time.”

  Bruce Feldman reclined in the large, soft leather chair, eyes closed, breathing at a slow, steady pace. Dr. Krause sat to his right in the dimly lit room, speaking softly, his soothing voice continued to deepen the hypnotic trance. A recording of gentle waves, washing against a sandy beach, murmured softly in the background.

  “Voyage back to the time that you first saw yourself, in 17th Century England. Are you there?”

  “Aye. The hunt ‘tis well begun.” Feldman’s voice has taken on an Cockney lilt.

  “What’s happening? Tell me what you see.”

  “I’m ahorse, hot after the Earl and the French harlot. ‘Tis me charge to keep ‘em well in hand fer m’lady. She suspects ‘im o’ diddling the Frog wench.” Krause hunched forward, studying his younger disciple, chilled at the deepened, rough timbre of his voice.

  “Good. Move ahead now, to when you observe them making love.”

  “Aye, I spy ‘em, though the view ain’t clear. I’m afoot now. There be two o’ us, sneaking through thick bresh. See there! The cad’s atop the whore. How can the bastard treat his lady such?” He twists and fidgets in the chair, his body drawing taut.

  “How do you feel about this?”

  “Flamin’ mad! M’lady Clarice deserves better. We creep up fer a better look. Out o’ the brush now. We rush on ‘em. I’m filled with fury.”

  “Who is your companion? Can you tell?”

  “Nay! I see ‘im, but ‘tis dim, fer all the shadowy bresh. Must be an angel, glitterin’ so in the broken light.”

  “What happens?”

  “The Earl’s affronted Lady Clarice, in the sight o’ God ‘n man. He must pay the cuckolds price! Ahh, he hears us, turnin’ from her milky flesh.” Feldman winces, jerking back in the chair.

  “Ah, God! He’s dead. Struck down, ‘n she’s quick ta follow, her head poppin’ like a ripe gourd.”

  “Did you strike the blows?” Dr. Krause leaned forward, perched on the edge of his chair, eyes intent. He caught himself holding his breath.

  “I… I know not. I be so filled with hate… hate, ’n now fear fer what we done. God, it should never ‘ave come ta this!”

  “Look hard. Rise above yourself. See who is striking the blows.”

  “I cannot! I cannot! Me shame blinds me. Dear God, I never figured it ta come to this. What ‘ave I done?”

  Bruce Feldman slunk back in the chair, eyes squeezed tight against the vision in his head. He moans, his voice a choked whisper.

  “Oh, the mayhem!
The carnage! I’m filled with frightful anger. What ‘ave we done? What ‘ave we done?”

  With any other patient, the psychiatrist would have insulated him from the remembered terror and pain. But his younger friend needed to see all, if he could, to sort things out. The problem was, the trauma and guilt were so intense that he was suffering from panic-induced myopia, a frequent syndrome of one unwilling to face past guilt.

  “Look around you. Is your companion still there? Describe him to me now.”

  “Vanished. There, I see his shining glow, disappearin’ through the bresh. An angel, mayhaps. An angel o’ death.”

  “What else do you see?” he asked, easing back in his chair, disappointed. They had learned very little new.

  “The Earl ‘n his harlot are dead, torn beyond ken. The glade be ripped ‘n covered with gore, as if gamed by the frenzy o’ some huge, wild beast.”

  “Look at yourself… your hands, your clothing.”

  “Ah, God! Blood, ‘n tatters o’ flesh. I’m awash with it! God forgive me. What ‘ave I done?” He wept, body heaving in agony.

  “All right, Bruce. Lift above this. Free yourself of these memories. Lift up. Up. You are insulated from the pain and guilt, safe in your protective bubble.” He could see the man slowly loosen up in the chair, a tightly wound spring hesitantly uncoiling.

  “You are free now to move forward to another time, another place. Breathe slowly, deeply. Relax your body… your mind. Relax.”

  Feldman’s ragged breathing slowed and steadied. Five minutes of gentle cajoling passed before Anton Krause felt it safe to journey on. One more try that day for illumination. He spoke tentatively, unsure if this were really wise.

  “Move ahead to that time in the 19th Century, where you again saw these two together. Three, two, one. Are you there?”

  “Yes.” His voice was again calm and strong.

  “Find yourself in that last hour. Although you will see everything from your eyes there, you are insulated from all feelings, all emotions. Tell me what you see.”

  “They be in a one-horse carriage, disappearin’ inta a woods. We be following on horseback.” A different voice now, no longer Cockney, but again of the working class of the time

  “You are with someone again? Do you know who it is?”

  “I canna tell. I be in front and canna see the other rider. We’ve rid inta the woods and are dismountin’. We creep through the forest ta the little meadow, where they stopped ta picnic.”

  “Do you know why you pursue them?”

  “Nay, but I be bitter angry at the woman. She’s cheating her husband of all that should be his. ‘Tis time fer revenge.”

  Dr. Krause paused, rubbing his temples, uncertain if he should continue. Did they really want to hear the bloody details of what was about to occur? He sighed softly, running his hands up through his bushy gray hair and down to the back of his neck.

  They had to go on. It was the only way to unravel this mystery. He knew Bruce Feldman, at least in this life. There was no way he could have committed these crimes. He hoped he was right!

  “Tell me what happened next… ”

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE

  “Three, two, one… and you’re awake.”

  The past ten minutes were spent reliving a terrifying, blood-soaked memory. Despite his mentor’s directions to remain emotionally uninvolved, Bruce Feldman was inexorably drawn into the anger, the fury and the gory destruction of the two young lovers, ultimately dissolving into a tearful, panic-filled lament that racked his soul.

  Awake finally from his hypnotic voyage, he sat, head in his hands, body still shuddering from the remnants of these devastating memories.

  “Christ, Bruce. That was pretty intense.”

  “Tell me about it!” Feldman took several deep breaths, trying to calm himself.

  “And you can’t say who your companion was, not in either instance?”

  “No. It was never clear. Like watching a film through a wet lens… all a little blurry. God, I feel like I’ve been run through a shredder.”

  “You didn’t learn anything new?”

  “Yes. One thing.”

  “Which was...?”

  “That it was the same person, I think.”

  “Who?”

  “My companion. The same soul in both lives.”

  “Ahh, I see. Makes sense, though, if you believe in the theory of Past Lives.”

  “And you still don’t, Anton? After this?”

  The older man removed his glasses, rubbing the bridge of his nose, a gesture Feldman knew indicated strong feelings of uncertainty.

  “I… I don’t know what to think, my friend. This all seems very real.”

  “Well, I don’t know any other way to explain it. Three people seeing the same things… identical memories… of the same occurrences. Things a historian verifies really happened three hundred years ago. Even without the intense reality of my own memories, I’d be a convert. So should you.”

  “I suppose so. As I said, it fits into the theory that souls tend to travel from life to life together, finding ways to continue interacting.”

  “They’re supposed to be resolving problems from past lives, aren’t they?

  “Yes. Either that, or paying penance for previous bad behavior.”

  “Well, that makes sense for Craig and Ashley. They’ve had very little time to revel in their love, so they keep trying. But what explanation is there for me? And my companion, for that matter?”

  “The theory isn’t that clear cut. There’s a reoccurring motive of revenge for one of you. I’m putting my money on the other guy.”

  “Maybe not. I’m here in this life, trying to help people. Maybe that’s my penance for being a… a murder.” The word stuck in his throat.

  “Or are you’re here to protect them now?” Krause stood. “Whatever, if this is the repeat of past lives, those two may be in grave danger.”

  “Yes,” Feldman said. “That’s what worries me.”

  He would go back, face these horrors again and again if necessary, until he had all the answers. Look for things he missed the first time.

  The truth was there. He just had to find it. It was a trip he would have to make alone.

  Not something he was looking forward to.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY

  “Non! Mon Dieu, non!” She wailed, her body racking convulsively.

  “Ashley! Ashley!” Slowly emerging from their erotic whirlpool, Craig was lying over her, his arms hooked protectively over their heads, a cold chill lacing his spine. His teeth were clenched, his body braced as if expecting an attack, all super-imposed over the glorious wonder of their first love-making.

  Another damned panic attack! Where the Hell does it come from, and why now, when I’ve finally found real love?

  “Non! Non!” Clenching him against her, Ashley whimpered, still awash in her terror.

  Craig gaped at her as she continued moaning in both French and English, her eyes screwed tightly shut, her face distorted. Something terrified her.

  “What is it, darling?” Spent from the intensity of their mutual orgasms and his weird panic, he struggled futilely to free himself, but the steel cables of her arms and legs shackled him.

  “Ashley, what’s wrong? There’s nothing to fear.” He needed to believe that as much as she. Her beautiful face was horribly contorted by an inner agony only she saw.

  Slowly, she relaxed, the planes of her cheeks and brow sliding back to normal. The clenched chin and knife-slit mouth eased. The elegant arched lips reappeared, lightly stained by her own blood. She gasped two quick breaths, as wary, slate gray slits regarded him with surprise now, as fear slipped away.

  “Craig?”

  “Yes, my love.” He too had wound down, left only with the glory of their love-making.

  “We’re alive?”

  “Of course we are. Making love is rarely deadly.” What a thing to say! He chuckled softly, despite his just ended bout with panic, brushing hair from
her face, kissing her gently on the forehead, then each eye.

  She groaned, a muted final release from The Terror. Rigid muscles went slowly limp, her arms and legs sliding away from him. She began to cry, the tears rolling down her cheeks, pooling at the notch of her throat.

  “What’s wrong, my love? What terrified you so?” His own fright dissipated, icy steel came into his voice. “Did Keith hurt you… ?”

  “No, no, nothing like that.” She smiled weakly, blinking away the salty remnants of tears.

  “It was just sort of… a reoccurring dream I’ve had lately. A horrible nightmare. I’d swear I saw them coming.”

  “Who?”

  “The… the beast. Coming after us. It was so real. I was shuddering as it struck me.”

  He grinned, lightly licking at the alkaline trails on her cheeks. He lay on his side, one hand gently tracing the wonderful curves, hollows and hills of her incredible body.

  “That, my love, was the Mount Vesuvius of orgasms.”

  “An orgasm? My orgasm?”

  “You bet. And mine was right on its heels. I’ve never experienced anything like that before.” And that was more true than she would ever know. Wondrous joy and unbridled terror, all in the same instant.

  “Me either.” She sucked in a deep breath, rolling to one side, coming up on her right elbow.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever even had one before. Certainly nothing like that.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “No.” She sat up, serene now that visions of danger had evaporated. “Our sex really dwindled off after Ricky was born, and it was almost non-existent after Beth. Janine was just a lucky accident. Sex was seldom very special for me… until today. He never did any of those wonderful things you do. Just a few kisses, a little touching, then the whole thing was over in a flash.”

  “What a bastard! He had no interest in your pleasure at all, did he?”

  “I don’t know. I guess not.” She shrugged bare shoulders.

  He feasted on the alabaster smoothness of her, needing to cradle her in his arms, feeling her cool fire, nestled against him. No strange panic, searching the shadows for something unknown and deadly, would ever keep him away.